


I Want to Know What Love Is

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Confused Dean, Cuddling, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Guilty Castiel, Headcanon, Heavy Petting, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Season Seven that Wasn't, Slash, Slow Burn, Worldbuilding, glacial build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Cas helps out on a hunt, Dean sucks it up to go say thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want to Know What Love Is

_November 2012_

Dean jolted awake.

He blinked up at the ceiling for a few moments, his moment of alertness quickly giving way to grogginess like it always did when he started awake like that. Rubbing a hand across his face, he lifted his arm, squinting at the watch on his wrist. Ten-thirty at night. Man—he’d just laid down for a catnap after dinner, and here it was three hours later.

Stretching mightily, he yawned and struggled to sit up—just because the downstairs couch was that much better than the upstairs didn’t mean it wasn’t a piece of crap. A soft grunt, however, made him pause for a minute—turned out Sam was actually asleep on the floor next to him. What the hell—was the upstairs couch not good enough for him? Dean slept on it all the time—Sam didn’t need to be a big baby and complain about how it was too short. No, he was just too long. Difference.

Swinging his legs off the couch and dropping his still-booted feet softly on the floor, he ground the heels of his hands against his eyes. Smacking his mouth a little and grimacing at the post-nap flavor, he quickly decided that finding a good remedy to that problem was first on his list—whiskey always worked well, and the open bottle he’d left on the table next to him before he’d fallen asleep was right where he left it, along with the glass he’d been using. Ah—that was much better. Best way to wash away the nasty taste of old whiskey was with fresh.

Well, one task taken care of, he now had a new one to fix—he had to pee. Rising carefully (and he was pleased that he only winced a little as he did it), he tip-toed around Sam and hesitated for a second before going for the stairs—Bobby’s pipes rattled something fierce, so using the downstairs bathroom would probably wake him up and Dean really didn’t feel like Sam bitching at him for being inconsiderate. ‘Course, going up wasn’t much better—every goddamn step creaked like thunder. About halfway up, Dean decided to screw trying to mince delicately upstairs, and while he didn’t stomp up, he just walked normally—and that wasn’t much worse than trying to creep. Oh well.

After he finished and gave his hands a rinse, he decided to give his stitches another check. Rolling up the bottom of his shirt, he eyed the nice and neat line on his stomach—he did have to concede that point to his brother. Sam could needle-and-thread a shallow wound like no other. Even he himself wasn’t that good. Well, screw him anyway.

It didn’t hurt too bad—stung more than anything by this point. It was still an eight-inch-long gash he’d needed fixed when they’d finished that latest the job, though. That _weird_ job. Shaking his head, Dean dropped his shirt back down and shuffled to the door, flicking off the light as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, ready to let his eyes adjust to the darkness again before heading downstairs and getting back onto the couch.

And that was when he noticed the door near the front of the hall, ajar just a few inches, with light spilling out—the light he’d used to see by to get to the bathroom, but hadn’t thought about where it was coming from. He could hear some kind of clicking noise—and after listening it for a minute, he recognized it for what it was. Cas was awake, and he was messing around with a _gun_ in there.

Dean had zero reason to be surprised by that. Just because Cas had had a few mishaps here and there learning how to hunt and protect himself the human way (like the mess with the silver bullets, or Bobby standing by and letting Cas learn the hard way that shotguns had serious recoil so holding them right was a little important) didn’t mean they’d made him stop. No, he needed to learn this shit—so he was in there with a gun, probably field-stripping or taking it apart or God knew what else Bobby was making him do these days. And Dean knew this was sensible and reasonable—but it was still weird. Cas was in there with a gun. Because he used guns now.

Well, he was gonna have to get used to it, and he knew he would eventually. Bobby was already threatening to send Cas out on a hunt with him and Sam at some point, just to see how well he did. Normally, Dean would’ve scoffed—what use would that runty idiot be on a hunt without his mad smiting skills? But, well, he’d found out just how useful Cas could be.

Cas wasn’t a good shot by any stretch right now, and just going by how slow Cas was learning about firearms, he wouldn’t ever be a great marksman or anything (like Dean was). He was still building up strength again—or rather, getting used to feeling so physically weak when compared to how he used to be Mighty Mouse or whatever. His knife-work wasn’t bad, and Dean was pretty sure he’d wind up being good with a blade—he had been before—but he was still more or less relearning how to use a knife as a human. As such, Dean hadn’t seen anything he could’ve really done on a hunt right now other than get in the way, so he’d been baffled by Bobby already talking about sending him out with them or even taking him out on one himself.

Until two days ago, anyway.

They’d been on a hunt all the way down in Texas— _way_ down in Texas, all the way in a town called Falfurrias, close to the border. Dean thought the name was stupid, but it didn’t matter—he and Sam had driven all the way down there not only because they’d just worked a job in Louisiana and were practically right there anyway, but also because it looked to be a simple in-and-out case. Something nasty was snatching up innocent folks, tearing them up, and eating their hearts. Sounded like either a werewolf or a skinwalker, and either way, that meant silver bullet to the heart. Easy, straight-forward, and then they could head up north scoping out new work on their way to Bobby’s again for a rest-up, before hitting the road again when something presented itself.

Well, of course it hadn’t been that easy. They’d arrived on the tail-end of the lunar cycle, so that meant only two days to figure out who had the furry problem if it was indeed a werewolf. Upon asking around town, they’d ruled out werewolf almost immediately—yeah, it was happening on the lunar cycle, but this turned out to be the second round of deaths in the area, and the last ones had not been around the full moon. A little more research had turned up similar deaths clear down into Mexico—and it was a pattern, near as they could tell, like something just making the rounds circling up and into the States. Nasty skinwalker, then, from Mexico.

They’d staked out an area where there had been feedings, and judging by the circular pattern this thing traveled, there was a good chance it’d show up. And while they’d been waiting, they had heard the damn _weirdest_ noise Dean had ever heard. Almost like the steady _wup-wup-wup_ of helicopter blades in slow motion. They’d scanned the whole night sky and had seen absolutely nothing, just heard that bizarre noise for probably ten minutes straight before it had stopped. Sam had opted to investigate the area and had scouted the perimeter while Dean had waited and kept an eye out for their skinwalker friend, but neither had found anything. Sam had come back afterwards, and they’d waited all night and had found nothing.

That morning, they’d gone into town to discover that another killing had gone down ten miles east of where they’d been. They’d gotten in to see the body, and this time they’d noticed something new—the other bodies had had claw marks in addition to missing hearts, but this one, some poor sap who’d been stumbling home after having a few drinks, had had three or four long slashes on his back that were as precise and smooth as a knife wound.

Things were getting bizarre.

Another day’s investigation had turned up still weirder—by chance, they’d discovered that he and Sam weren’t the only ones who had heard that noise. In fact, a few people had heard it several times but had never seen anything that could’ve possibly made it. With no other leads, they’d both been about ready to call up Bobby and see if he could dig anything up when they’d pretty much just _stumbled_ upon the damn thing. They’d been driving back to town to hit their hotel room when they’d seen someone running frantically for a barn standing near a field. They’d taken a detour, and when they’d gotten there, they’d jumped out of the car just in time to hear his screams get cut off.

_Shit!_

Guns drawn, they’d raced into the barn, silver bullets loaded and both of them ready to put down their quarry—

And they’d found themselves staring at a thin figure crouched on top of its latest victim, already with his chest torn half-open, claws dug into his flesh, long teeth bared—and it had fucking _wings_?!

Neither of them had long to contemplate the wings, because now it was just pissed off that it’d had its dinner interrupted. They’d opened fire, and their silver bullets had done fuck-all to it. Snarling and spitting, it had leapt up, wings beating furiously, and there had been the noise, that familiar beating, but it was _muted_ somehow. They’d run out of the barn post haste and dived back into the Impala, speeding away only to see the thing bursting out of the barn and flying after them faster than he would’ve thought it could go—and it had quickly caught up with them and landed hard right on the trunk, slashing both rear tires with its wings and playing merry hell with the suspension, the little fucker. Forced to stop, they’d gotten out, trying to keep his poor baby between it and themselves as Dean had frantically dialed up Bobby and Sam had taken shots at the circling thing that had only seemed to make it madder. When Bobby picked up, he’d been greeted by the string of obscenities Dean had unleashed when the monster swooped low and raked its claws across the hood of his car when it missed them.

Frantically and furiously, Dean had rattled off what he was seeing, Bobby repeating his words back just as incredulously—he’d obviously never heard of it either. Dean hadn’t had a chance to answer Bobby’s question, if he’d been asking one, because he’d had to drop the phone and smash the butt of his shotgun against the thing when it managed to pin Sam down. It’d taken off again—sending Dean flying painfully onto the ground in the process—but it was already circling around for another go when Dean had snatched the phone up again and heard not Bobby, but Cas.

“Dean?!” he’d hollered. “Dean, answer me!”

“What, Cas, I’m here—”

“What does it look like?” he demanded.

“It’s real skinny with fangs and claws and has wings!” Dean answered back. “And it makes a weird noise when it flies, but I can’t really hear it right now—” And he’d dropped the phone again when it had swooped low, and he’d had to dive to the side, but he hadn’t dived fast enough. He missed the claws, but its wing clipped him and he’d howled in pain when the edge of its wing had sliced right through his side.

“Dean, are you okay?!” Sam had shouted.

“Yeah, the wings—the edges, they’re like _knives_ —”

He’d heard Cas’s tinny voice screaming up at him from the ground then, and he’d scrabbled for the phone, gritting his teeth as he’d bled through his shirt. “What?! Say it again, I didn’t hear you!”

“It’s a Wak Wak!”

“It’s a _what_?!” Dean had shouted back, then had flinched when Sam had waited until the thing was diving at them before firing at it again, causing it to swerve.

“Behead it with an iron blade!” Cas had ordered.

Dean hadn’t bothered wondering how Cas knew that and still hadn’t processed what the fuck he’d just called it—he had a way to kill it, and that was what mattered. So one mad scramble for his battered trunk later and he was armed with their iron axe, and he waited for it to swoop low again, Sam drawing its attention to him on purpose (because he was a twerp), and right as it came at them, claws outstretched, Dean swung.

Clean cut. The head went flying off into the dark, but Sam had to dive to the side when the body just kept going, apparently unaware that it was dead, and slammed hard against the side of the Impala, smashing the right rear door to hell.

Dean buried the axe right in its back on principle and barely resisted the vindictive urge to keep going and chop it into little tiny pieces and then to piss on what was left of the fucker.

Instead, he’d just sunk down to lean against the car, panting and squeezing his eyes shut as the adrenaline already started wearing off and the full brunt of his injuries began to hit him. He’d heard Sam talking into the phone, telling Bobby or Cas or whoever that the thing was down and they’d be heading home after they burned the body and patched themselves up, but he didn’t may much attention. He was too busy concentrating on putting pressure on his side. He’d bled like a stuck pig; this shirt was pretty well ruined.

Sam had not only changed the slashed tires, but he’d stitched him up nicely when they’d gotten to the hotel, Dean chugging whiskey the whole time—it wasn’t too deep, but it was long and it was on a sensitive area. Stupid bastard—bad enough it had to do that to him, but all the damage it had done to his _car_ …he’d never felt more pleasure in torching something.

The ride home had taken longer than usual, too—not only had he not wanted to speed like crazy due to the spares he had on the car, but he’d avoided any clouds that looked like they might even think about raining—he wasn’t gonna risk getting his baby wet even a little bit, not with her paint damage. But they’d limped back to Bobby’s eventually and gotten her inside, and the first thing Dean had wanted to know was how the _hell_ Cas just pulled that out of his ass—that, and exactly what the fuck a _Wak Wak_ was.

Bobby had just rolled his eyes and summed it up as a Filipino cross between a ghoul and a vampire before explaining the other question. “You forget what he really is, Dean?” he’d asked wryly. “Just ‘cause he’s trapped in his meatsuit now and _mostly_ one of us, he’s still an angel in his head. He’s still _Castiel_. He’s _old_ , Dean, and he’s seen a _lot_ of crap. Just ‘cause he’s an idiot doesn’t mean he’s stupid. Hell, on free days, sometimes I just sit and talk monsters with him, and believe me, we should all be grateful that we’re only dealin’ with the monsters roamin’ the earth _today_ , not some of the old-school ones that have gone extinct and been put back into Purgatory forever.”

Staring at the open door, listening to the clicks and rattles, Dean suddenly realized that he really hadn’t had a chance to thank Cas or even acknowledge that he’d pretty much saved their lives from frickin’ Fozzie Bear. No way Bobby could’ve researched that sucker fast enough to figure it out—by the time he would’ve found it, he and his brother would’ve been lunch.

Except…he really didn’t want to go in there. Not right now. Not late at night with everyone asleep, because he hadn’t done that since—that _other_ night. Yeah. _That_ night.

Sweet Christ, he didn’t even want to think about it. Just the thought of thinking about it was making him want to shoot himself in the head. Well, Cas had a gun in there—he could just use that. And it looked like he might be doing it, considering he was making his way back down the hall and was gonna go into Cas’s room and…do what?

He didn’t know. All he knew was what he _wasn’t_ going to do, even if it meant jumping out of the window to avoid it.

Dean considered knocking when he reached the door, but decided to screw it—it was open. Cas could deal. Reaching a tentative hand out, he pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped inside just in time to see Cas firmly slam the clip back into his gun with a loud snap before he blinked and looked up at him.

That was weird. He just—it was _weird_. Cas had a gun—the Angel of the Lord had a friggin’ _gun_.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas suddenly said, almost making him jump. “Are you feeling all right?”

Dean coughed, shuffling in the door way and feeling like a complete loser. “Uh—yeah. It’s not hurtin’ too much. Even after workin’ on the car.”

“Is that what you were doing today?” Cas asked, still all benign and pleasant. Bastard.

“Yeah. Had to work on the suspension—that thing hit the back and messed it up a little.” God, Dean felt stupid. He finally stopped farting around in the doorway and slipped into the room completely, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, made what was probably a bad decision and shut the door. Fuck, he shouldn’t have done that. _Definitely_ a bad decision. But it was done and he wasn’t going to open the door again because that would look idiotic.

For lack of anything better to do, he flapped his arm at Cas’s gun, when he had set gently down on the table in front of him. “Bobby have you field-stripping or something?” he asked.

“Yes,” Cas said very seriously. “He said he wants to start timing me soon, but for now he just has me take it apart and put it back together ten times before I go to sleep.”

“So…you done, then?” Dean asked.

“Yes.” He picked it back up and offered it to Dean.

Dean hesitated, but reached out and took it from him, careful to grab it by the end of the proffered butt so he wouldn’t touch Cas’s hand. He could tell from the weight that Bobby had him practicing on an unloaded gun, which was definitely for the best—Cas was so stupid he’d more than likely shoot himself in the face.

He didn’t want to spend some time looking over a gun—Bobby could do that in the morning. So he just gave it a perfunctory check, popping the slide back and ejecting the empty clip before handing it back. “Looks good to me. Bobby’ll probably wanna see it tomorrow, too, though.”

“He will—he always does,” Cas replied, returning it to the table and then just staring silently up at him again because he was a douchebag who liked to make Dean uncomfortable and make him start running at the mouth.

Rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, he started across the room, wanting to sit down because his leg was still a little sore from all the action with that monster, but the only place to sit was the goddamn bed. And he did _not_ want to sit there. On the other hand, the bed was Away From Cas, so that was always nice.

“Um—I didn’t get much outta Bobby on what the hell that thing was,” Dean started, struggling not to let his face heat up as he gingerly sat down on the very edge and end of the bed. “So—what the hell is a—what, a wakka-wakka, or whatever?”

“A Wak Wak,” Cas corrected patiently. “A Filipino and Malaysian monster. They’ve been known to show up in Central America from time to time.”

“So what the fuck was this one doing up here?” Dean demanded.

“I suspect it was the warm weather this year—or perhaps it was just looking for different feeding grounds,” Cas said. “They feed on human blood and hearts, and just going by the map you drew up, it seemed to be working its way northward.”

Hmph—Cas was too observant. Why the hell did he need to look at their shit anyway? Job was done. Now he was just being nosy. Dean shrugged it off and continued. “Whose idea was it to name them something that stupid?”

“They’re named for the sound their wings make.”

“Yeah, about that,” Dean groused. “I think we heard it flying around the first night we staked out a spot and didn’t see anything—but we barely heard anything when it was pretty much on top of us.”

“Yes—you can only hear the sound of their wings when they are far away and uninterested in you. When they are near and have targeted you, you can’t hear their wingbeats.”

Dean snorted. “That makes no sense.”

Cas simply shrugged. “It is how they are.”

“Doesn’t make it any less bizarre,” Dean grunted, scratching at his knee before jerking a little and growling in irritation—he was still discovering new little bruises and scratches from their scuffle, goddammit. “Well, good thing you, you know—knew about it. Good going there.”

The creak of Cas’s chair heralded that he was getting up, and Dean stiffened as he saw him walking in his direction. Oh, _fuck him_ , Cas was coming over to sit next to him. _Sit next to him on the fucking bed!_ Yep, there he went, sitting _right there next to him_ , on the _bed_ , because personal boundaries? What are _those_?! So help him, Dean would just bludgeon him senseless with that gun of his if he—

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Cas asked, his eyes big and brighter than they had been in a while—he’d obviously been starting to sleep better now and Dean refused to think about how his nightmares had started gradually tapering off shortly after he and Cas had had their to-do in the back of the car.

Dean blinked, trying unsuccessfully to clear his head, and he finally coughed and looked away, staring resolutely at the door. “Yeah,” he managed, figuring out what he was asking. “Nothing permanent.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” Cas said, his voice suddenly almost…wistful.

Dean snorted, giving him an incredulous look. “What more could you have done? You were in South Dakota—we were nearly in Mexico.”

“I meant for your wounds,” Cas clarified, gesturing a little to his side.

Dean shrugged. “Sam’s good—anything I can’t fix up myself he always does. That’s how it works for both of us.” Besides, he didn’t want Cas’s hands on him in the first place.

“No, I mean…” Cas looked down at the floor, biting his lip a little and sighing. “I’m sorry I couldn’t heal them, Dean. I wish I could—I wish…”

Dean glared blackly at him as he moped at the rug. _Fuck you._ “Cas, _don’t_. If we’re gonna start apologizing for shit we can’t do, then I’m sorry I can’t make it rain friggin’ dollar bills and free hookers,” he growled. “You—you can do _plenty_.”

Cas was still looking glum because he was a _bitch_. “I don’t know if it’s enough. I am still unskilled with firearms, I don’t know how to do field work as a human, and I can’t… _do_ things I used to.”

“Quit whining,” Dean said sharply. “You—for Christ’s sake, Cas, you fucking saved my life _and_ Sam’s the other night. You even get that? How is that you being useless just because you can’t fire a gun very well yet? And what about all the shit you do for Bobby? Stop complaining that you’re useless. ‘Cause you _aren’t_. I’d—” He ground his teeth and forced it out. “Cas, we’d be dead if it weren’t for you. Okay?”

Cas still didn’t look up from the rug, but after a moment or two at least he nodded. Jesus—if he went into another funk because he’d lost his wings and no bell could ring them back onto his shoulders, Dean would punch him. Dean knew from personal experience and from Bobby that Cas’s…weird depressive states were beginning to slack off. Hell, at the first, he used to go into one every other fucking day, sucking all of the joy out of the house to the point that you’d _feel bad_ for having a good day while he was miserable. Asshat.

_‘Course, you know how to snap him out of it._

Okay. That was _not_ an acceptable thing for his stupid Inner Monologue to bring up at a time like this. It wasn’t an acceptable thing to bring up _ever_ , but it was _especially_ unacceptable now because he was sitting on Cas’s bed with him.

Dean growled internally, but sighed audibly, awkwardly reaching out and patting Cas gingerly on the shoulder before pulling his hand away as quickly as he possibly could without looking moronic. “Look, hunting isn’t—all firing guns and beheading monsters. You should already know that. Bobby—Bobby told me how you’ve basically cut his research in half, just from what you pull out of your ass. You’re a walking set of encyclopedias. You more than make up for the lack of, you know, hands-on skill with what you _know_. And that hands-on stuff will come with time—you won’t always be the rookie. You’re—you’re gonna be a hell of an asset to our hunting.” Swallowing hard, he raised his eyes skyward and made himself continue. “And…maybe sometime, you can…come with Sam and me. You know. On a hunt. Later. When Bobby’s busy or something.”

He chanced a look over at Cas, and he was being stared at—Cas’s expression was lifting, all hopeful and _touched_ and shit, so Dean quickly and forcefully added, “Not any time soon, though. But yeah—later. Maybe.”

The modifications to his original statement did nothing to deter that positively soppy look Cas had. Well, fuck. Why the hell did Cas always treat anything he said as _gospel_ or something ridiculous like that? It was stupid _and_ made Dean feel uncomfortable.

Know what else made Dean feel uncomfortable? When Cas _stared_ at him like that. He wouldn’t _stop_. At least it wasn’t that unblinking stare like it used to be when he was still a holy-roller. Or maybe it was worse now—when he was an angel, it was this intense and _inhuman_ stare that made him feel like a bug under a microscope. This new one was human and it was _emotional_ —and it freaked him the hell out.

Clearing his throat, he steeled himself and reached out, trying to be as decisive and firm in his actions as possible, and clapped a hand around Cas’s shoulders, shaking him a little. He had to do what he really came in here to do, dammit, because—because Cas had decided to be pathetic and think he was useless. “So, uh—yeah,” he muttered. “Thanks for, you know. Getting us out of that, Cas.”

Sweet Lord, why was a gruff thanks for something Dean would do in return for him making Cas look like he was about leap up and run outside and sing praises? That _look_ was there in full force, his eyes all big and shiny and blue, and Dean suddenly became aware that they were way too close. He really, really needed to get up. He’d done what he came up here to do—and then some! He’d headed off one of those goddamned fits of Cas’s at the pass. Wasn’t that enough? So he needed to get his arm off of Cas, get up, and _leave_. Just go back downstairs and go to bed. Maybe disinfect his stitches one more time. _Something_ that involved getting the fuck away from Cas.

But just like last time in the car and just like—fuck him, just like that—that _other_ time, he just couldn’t _move_. Cas was so damn _warm_ under his arm, and he was _close_ , and even as Cas kept _looking_ at him, Dean couldn’t help but think about everything they’d just talked about and there it went, that fucking slow and lazy turn, that tiny bit of warmth in his chest, and he hated it. Cas wasn’t moving, thank God, but it turned out that didn’t mean a damn thing. What the fuck was he doing— _why_ was he sliding his arm further around his shoulders? _Why_ was he pulling him a little closer?!

Christ, it really _was_ just like when they’d wound up friggin’ _cuddling_ in the back of the Impala, complete with Dean acting like some brain dead teenager trying to sidle up to his first girlfriend. Only problem with this was Dean really, _really_ wasn’t sure why he was trying to sidle up at all! He hadn’t come up here to do this, so why was he doing it?! Somehow, Cas had conned him into it. That had to be it. He didn’t know how, but he’d done it.

Of course, Cas wasn’t helping. He was just sitting there like a stump, yes, but he had that expression on his face and wasn’t looking away, either. Dean _hated_ that. He’d just sit there and stare until Dean finally did something, and Dean knew exactly what he was going to do. Oh, he _so_ didn’t want to do it, and his every inclination was to just get up and leave, but no, he was already reaching up, already had his other hand on Cas’s shoulder, turning him to face him. _Why_ was he doing this? There was _zero_ reason or explanation for it!

No, there was one reason, and despite Dean stalwartly insisting it was so _not_ a good enough reason, it was the exact same reason that had been there when he’d—when he’d _kissed_ him in the Impala and even there when they’d—

_It’s Cas. Just Cas._

_Fuck my life!_ he snarled internally as he pulled Cas forward and Cas came willingly, not leaning into it but not resisting, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut just as he saw Cas’s starting to close too—

Dean was tense and rigid as he kissed him, however brief, because he just _knew_ what would happen next—yeah, the same fucking thing that happened the last two times. Cas was gonna go nuts any second but he was _ready_ for him this time, and Dean was going to take great pleasure in throwing him on the floor when he did.

He kept his lips firmly closed, barely moving them, but he could still feel the way Cas was trying to kiss back—tentatively and almost shyly. He was staying completely still for the most part, though, his breathing steady, and by the time it finally sank in that no, Cas _wasn’t_ trying to attack him, Dean also realized just sitting there _kissing_ him the whole time, just one big long one.

 _Unacceptable._ Quickly, he pulled away, keeping his eyes shut because he knew what he’d see if he opened them. Breathing hard through his nose, he steadied himself; okay, that hadn’t been too bad. He hadn’t felt any stubble because Cas was starting to get into the habit of shaving regularly (finally), it hadn’t been…too obvious that he’d just kissed a guy. He’d kept his hands in safe territory, and most importantly, Cas had _not_ gone insane. Apparently, his threats and orders had stuck from the ( _oh dear God_ ) last time they’d done this. After a few more seconds, he finally cracked his eyes open.

Yep. Just as he’d thought. Cas’s face was still right there, way too close to his own, and all he could really see were those big, blue, _starry_ eyes, all bright and shiny and staring right through him in the way only Cas could—in the only way Cas ever _did_ to him. Jesus, why had Dean never really noticed that he never _looked_ at anyone else like this? And—God, how many _other_ people _had_ noticed?!

He couldn’t think about that. Not right now, not with his arms around Cas after he’d just fucking _kissed_ him again. And when he knew he was going to do it some more. Because he was. _Fuck fuck FUCK._

Even as his gut twisted unpleasantly, his chest warmed, and he pulled Cas forward, sliding his arms more firmly around him. He was still more tense than he could remember being in a long time ( _how about three months ago in the back of the car, dumbass_ ), and it didn’t get better when Cas finally _did_ move, just settling in and making himself at home, sticking his face up against Dean’s neck and making him get goosebumps again. Goddammit.

He tilted his head to return the favor a bit, leaning down, and there was Cas’s mostly-smooth neck and jaw against his cheek—better than the last times, but it still smelled faintly of aftershave where there should’ve been perfume, so it was still all wrong. As he pulled away, Cas the moron somehow interpreted that as a signal to sit up, and Dean felt the slow slide of Cas’s cheek against his own before he realized what would wind up happening if they did that, and yep, there it was—Cas’s mouth was right there, millimeters from his own, little breaths puffing against his lips, and against all of his better judgment (and _taste_ , goddammit), Dean closed the distance again.

Cas leaned into it this time, but not much—but definitely enough to make Dean uncomfortable, the bastard. Dean angled his mouth a bit more, still keeping his tongue behind his teeth and Cas had just better do the same. He froze when he felt Cas’s tentative hand come up to rest against his shoulder, but relaxed minutely when that was all it did. He still had to break away again—goddammit, why was he kissing a fucking _man_?

_Because it’s not a fucking man. It’s Cas._

_Shut up, Sam-Voice._

He wasn’t really sure when he’d moved one hand to rest against Cas’s throat, his thumb pressing where he could feel Cas’s pulse beating. He just kept still, his forehead resting against Cas’s, and for some reason Cas was every-so-slightly trembling, his breath shaky as he sat there. What the hell—he’d kissed him twice and he was already going nuts? Cas could only play his “Like a Virgin” card so far when it came to…this.

Okay. Who told Cas he could lean forward and kiss Dean this time? Dean _never_ said he could do that—and for good reason!

But he’d done it all the same, just slowly and tentatively and _shyly_ , and for just a few seconds before stopping, just barely pulling away, his lips still near enough to Dean’s that he could feel the warmth from them. His hand was on the move, inching along Dean’s shoulder towards his neck, and dammit, Dean knew he was just trying to copy him. It wasn’t long before Cas’s hand was mirroring his own, his fingers curling around Dean’s neck, his thumb stroking against Dean’s pulse point, but then Cas was weird and pressed his whole hand against his neck before he let out a shaky little exhale, his breath hot against Dean’s lips.

Still keeping his eyes closed, Dean shifted, sliding his arm from around Cas’s shoulders until his palms rested on either side of Cas’s face, pressed against his jawline. He was so smooth this time—that was much, _much_ better. Dean could at least…pretend this wasn’t nearly as sick as it really was, what with him cupping Cas’s face and tilting his head up to kiss him again. Even thought it was. ‘Cause Cas was a guy and all.

Cas was still all shivery, his lips trembling against Dean’s, and Dean stiffened when he felt Cas’s fingers slide away from his neck and start creeping down. Well, where Dean had his hands was great now, because if he tried to grope him, he’d wring his scrawny neck. But no, Cas just did exactly what he did last time—his hand crept on down until it reached his chest and then he just _pressed_ there, his fingers flexing against Dean’s shirt. What the hell was he _doing_? Was the bastard trying to second-base him or something? Someone needed to explain that that didn’t work with dudes—just ‘cause he managed to cop a feel with Meg didn’t mean he was gonna get anything there from _Dean_ , goddammit.

This time it was Cas who broke away, tilting his head downward, and Dean couldn’t help it—he opened his eyes a little to see just what the hell he was doing. Cas’s eyes were open as well, but he was just staring at his own hand where it was pushing against him and Dean couldn’t even _begin_ to describe his enraptured expression.

What the fuck was wrong with him? First Cas tries to attack him, and then now Dean actually starts kissing him, all of the sudden his own _hand_ is more fascinating. Screw that.

Gently, he angled Cas’s face right back up to his own and for a second he saw Cas’s sparkling blue eyes, and he had to close his own just so he wouldn’t have to look at him and he pressed his mouth over Cas’s, and the hand on his chest pressed harder, right against his ribs. Cas was tilting his head for him now, moving with him, and Dean nearly froze again when Cas’s free hand slowly got into his hair. But Dean didn’t freeze, instead deciding to keep up what he was doing to make sure Cas didn’t get any ideas that he could be in charge. Because he couldn’t.

It…wasn’t too bad, he supposed. Now that he was clean-shaven—Dean was honestly surprised how much that improved things. He didn’t have to sit there and grab his shoulders or something stupid like that, or tilt his face in funny ways, ‘cause Cas wasn’t all _bristly_. And…fuck-buckets, Dean was getting into it faster than before. Jesus Christ.

Just the realization that he was _getting into it_ again, and _faster_ this time, was almost enough to have to make him stop. But no—he wasn’t going to. This was _fine_. It—so he enjoyed it. Kind of. A little. So _what_. It wasn’t like anybody else knew or would _ever_ know. So if he wanted to—okay, he didn’t _want_ to, necessarily—but so what if he was just going to kiss Cas a little harder. He—

What the fuck was he even _doing_?

Now he _did_ break away. _What the_ hell _, Winchester?_ He almost pushed Cas away from him, but the way Cas had his hands on him didn’t allow that, and he heard the breathless little gasp Cas made when Dean finally stopped and could feel those shivery pants he was making. Why the hell was Cas so _shaky_? Dean was two seconds from prying him off and shoving him off the bed entirely—

“ _Dean…_ ”

The fingers in his hair twitched and flexed a little tighter as Dean abruptly kissed him again, the warm feeling in his chest oozing down to his stomach. Why did—why did Cas _say_ that like that? And why did it do _that_ to Dean when he did?

Dean couldn’t help but sigh a bit with Cas this time because Cas was kissing back and it was not quite so clumsy anymore—he was still kinda copying, but it didn’t matter—it was mostly decent, and it…felt kind of nice. Dean just went with it, parting his lips slightly and licking a little at Cas’s lower lip—man, Bobby needed to really crack down on the ongoing Chapstick War with Cas. He’d thought they _looked_ bad, but feeling them was even worse—

Oh, _fuck_ , Cas was trying to tongue him back!

His mouth was open and he could feel Cas’s wet tongue slipping out to lick his own lower lip in return, and that _was_ clumsy, but he could sense his eagerness, the way he was moving forward, pressing closer and Dean was frozen—what the fuck was he supposed to _do_?! He knew from experience ( _FUCK!_ ) that if he didn’t do _something_ , Cas would go nuts and jump on him and try to shove his tongue down his throat and hump his fucking leg. So _what_?! Punch him? Throw him off? Or—

He chose the third and worst door because he was a complete dumbass right now. He slid his arms down and up under Cas’s arms so he could hold him properly, firmly closed his mouth again so Cas couldn’t try to French him, and kissed him harder, leaning forcefully against Cas and hoping against all odds that he got the fucking message.

And amazingly enough, he _did_. Well, wonder of wonders. He stopped pressing against Dean and instead let Dean lean on _him_ , only he seemed to be going backwards—where the hell did he think he was going? Dean followed, Cas’s hands now both in his hair and keeping his mouth on his own so he wasn’t sure anymore who was leading and who was getting dragged along for the ride. Dean just crawled along, getting his legs up in bed as Cas scooched backwards, panting against Dean’s mouth—

…in bed?

Dean finally had to reach up and push Cas away, getting his lips _off_ of Cas’s, and he looked down.

Jesus _God_ , he’d done it again. No, he wasn’t lying down, but—here he was, in _bed_ with Cas, up against the pillows and everything because Cas was a fucking _sneak_ and Dean had a good mind to just punch him and leave.

He suddenly became aware that, _un_ like last time, Cas wasn’t pawing at him. Last time Dean had shoved him off and tried to stop, he’d not gotten the message and had just kept going, flinging himself at him and trying to just attack him. But now, he was still, except for that one hand creeping slowly back up to get against Dean’s ribs again; the only sound Dean could hear was Cas’s quick breathing.

He wiggled back until his legs weren’t touching Cas’s anymore—he didn’t like that (and it was no small feat, considering how fucking _small_ this bed was). And he refused to try and get more comfortable—more comfortable involved lying down, and no, he was not gonna do that and no force could make him. So he’d sit here, up against all of Cas’s pillows (because he always stole them from all the other rooms because he was a huge girl), propped up on one elbow, with one cautious arm around Cas’s shoulders. He left that there because he was ready to give Cas a hearty shove if he got ideas, something that was still entirely possible.

But Cas was still just quiet and calm, content to just fucking _snuggle_ up to him, his palm still against Dean’s chest and his hair was tickling Dean’s chin. A glance down revealed that Cas was staring at his hand again, all enthralled like before. What the fuck was wrong with him? Well, whatever. Let him stare—when he was staring he wasn’t trying anything, and that was how it needed to be. Dean was trying to collect himself again and get control of the situation back to where it belonged.

Okay. Okay. Despite being… _completely_ freaked out, this really wasn’t…unacceptable. Except how it was, but it was unacceptable in a way that he could _deal_ with it. That must be why Cas was such a bitch and tried to speed things up with his spaz attacks on him all the time, because he _knew_ Dean was uncomfortable and so loved being able to do that. Now that he couldn’t just _appear_ behind him in the bathroom or some shit, he had to find new ways to get his kicks.

Oh, look, he was already working on it. Dean felt the urge to leap out of bed when Cas pushed a little closer, sinking down lower so he could get his head right up under Dean’s chin, his hand still on his chest, but now he was lightly _stroking_ , just pawing at his breastbone and ribs. And—what was his other hand doing? What was he reaching for? It better not be anything serious or Dean would kill him. Okay—his hand was just creeping upwards. Nothing to worry about there. Dean was irritated at the intensity of that particular wave of relief; just because Cas wasn’t trying to sneak up on…anything _important_ didn’t mean this was okay!

Cas took forever to reach his destination, shifting and getting his arm up, and Dean twitched a little when his fingers came to rest against his throat, moving slowly as he stroked him. He really, really needed to stop that, because when Cas touched or—or _kissed_ his neck bad things happened, and _fuck_ , just remembering that—

He suddenly realized Cas actually had stopped. His fingers were still, pressed against one spot on his neck, and Cas let out a breathy, wondrous little sigh and leaned even closer when he did it. For a moment, Dean had no idea what was so special about this weird position Cas had twisted into, but with the increasing pressure of Cas’s fingers, he figured it out. Cas was taking his pulse, his fingers right there where it was thumping away in his neck, harder than normal because he was so fucking nervous ( _goddammit!_ ).

Dean blinked, and then more dots were connected—Cas’s hand against his chest…he wasn’t fondling his ribs or stroking his chest. He was pressing his palm right up against his heartbeat.

…so, Cas was apparently playing some kind of demented game of Twister with Dean’s arteries. What next—left foot, right wrist?

Fine. Whatever. If anything, it was giving Dean time to get his bearings back. He still wasn’t sure how he’d wound up horizontal with Cas _again_ , and even if they weren’t _really_ horizontal, he was still in bed with another guy in his arms.

Jesus Christ, actually putting it like that was really horrible.

But the stupid, bubbly warmth in his chest didn’t really care. It was still there, still going strong, still refusing to go down. All it cared about was that he was holding the angel. _His_ angel.

Fuck-it-all, but that sounded _stupid_. He reminded himself to never, ever think that again.

Any kind of mellowness he might have managed in that little quiet spell promptly vanished when Cas started moving again. He wasn’t moving his hands, but he was shifting positions, pushing himself closer, his eyes all big and bright and it was fucking _ridiculous_ , and he just got closer, oh God, he was going to kiss him again—

“Dean,” he whispered, and then the distance was closed and his fingertips flexed against Dean’s heartbeat as he kissed him, his movements tentative, his kissing almost _shy_ , and Dean couldn’t help it—his arms tightened around him, pulling him up against his chest as he slid one hand up and curled his fingers into Cas’s hair.

He was so damn hot—why was he so hot? Dean still couldn’t figure it out, not even six months later. He understood the number of blankets on Cas’s bed even less—Cas didn’t just steal pillows, it seemed. Well, he supposed it was okay he was so warm—he could just…concentrate on that instead of other things. Dean always liked feeling a warm body against his.

‘Cept this warm body had a dick.

Dean refused to flinch—Cas was still kissing him, and while he forgot to kiss back for a few seconds, Cas didn’t stop. He was just kissing him over and over, tiny, gentle, feather-light ones on his mouth with a little pause between each one as if he was asking, “Is this okay?” every time. Which it wasn’t, but Dean didn’t say anything; he just forced himself to relax, trying to get back to how he was before that little wayward reminder. He hadn’t been relaxed, per se, but at least before every little thing hadn’t reminded him that he was kissing a dude. Which was still not okay.

Goddammit, Cas was scooting even closer now, angling his head back so that the kiss he was currently in pretty much _had_ to get deeper. He didn’t break off, either, and, well, Dean didn’t make any move to do that himself. He had his eyes closed, and Cas wasn’t trying anything crazy, so this was…okay. It…did feel nice, he had to admit it, even though he _so_ didn’t want to. Cas was getting trembly again, which Dean did not get—they weren’t _doing_ anything!

Finally, the hand on his neck moved to get behind his head again, stroking his hair and inadvertently pulling him more firmly against his still-moving mouth. Dean couldn’t really help but respond in kind, and without thinking, the tip of his tongue snuck out again for that little lick he always liked, right there against Cas’s lower lip.

Dean froze at the same time Cas did, and he knew it was coming—Cas was gonna lunge at him again, any second now, and he suddenly realized that maybe he could throw _him_ off _first_ , and that would be the end of it—

And then Cas, very obviously restraining himself, slowly opened his own mouth just enough to flick his tongue out and lick Dean’s mouth in return before he just sat there, his lips parted, breathing shakily against Dean’s own still-open mouth.

Dean wasn’t sure how long he sat there, nor was he all that sure when he’d started kissing Cas again. All he knew was that he kept his eyes shut and his grip on Cas’s hair tight as he really leaned into it, sliding his tongue all the way across Cas’s lower lip this time before Cas strained forward, already starting to cling as he thrust his tongue out to try and meet Dean’s.

Dean let him—fuck’s sake, no reason not to at this point, especially not since Dean had a firm grip on him and could shake him off if he got too weird. Some part of Dean (the part that he hated) wished that maybe Cas was a little better at this—he obviously had no idea what he was doing, just trying to move his tongue like Dean’s. Maybe if he were better, it would distract him more firmly from…well, from what Dean was doing with his own tongue.

Cas’s arms slid around his shoulders, squeezing tighter, and Dean pressed more against him, refusing to let up because he knew Cas still had no clue how to breathe and kiss at the same time, and all he had to do was just hold him down and he’d relax a little more. Sure as shooting, he did, gasping when Dean finally let him up for air—but he didn’t give him much, because if he got more he’d use it to get all handsy and Dean would take his keys to the Impala’s paint before he let Cas do that again.

Clingy as Cas was, this wasn’t…nearly as frantic and wild as the last time Cas had gotten Frenched. That time he’d thrown himself at Dean and attempted to lick his epiglottis. Here, though…Dean figured Cas was just doing what Dean was doing. And because Dean wasn’t shoving his tongue down Cas’s throat, Cas wasn’t doing it, either. That was…okay, Dean supposed, because that meant he could set whatever pace he wanted. But on the other hand, it was terrible—because it meant Dean was making all of the moves here and couldn’t blame a damn thing on Cas.

One of Cas’s hands had crept back down to Dean’s chest, pressing against his heartbeat again. Goddammit, what was _up_ with that? Dean ignored it, pulling away to take a short break and to—well, to stop macking on a dude, because there was only so much of that he could take. He stayed still, taking deep, even breaths, his cheek against Cas’s, with Cas’s quick little pants—still shaky as ever—skating across his skin and practically in his ear, but then he felt him turn, just a little, and kiss his jaw.

Dean didn’t move. What did—who told him he could do that?! Why was he suddenly getting _ideas_?! Well, he was just gonna have to stop. Things were officially _over_ now—

Cas kissed him again—lower now, leaning forward to the point that he almost kissed behind Dean’s ear. And then another—oh shit. He was kissing his neck.

They weren’t crazy or anything and he wasn’t even licking at him—they were just those soft, fucking _shy_ little kisses, right there on his neck, but _goddammit_ , that—that felt—

Cas pressed a long one right on his pulse, then just sat there, his lips touching his skin, his breath hot, the hand on Dean’s chest shaking a little. _Shit_ , that felt so—it was barely anything at all, but it—and _Cas_ , it was just _Cas_ , tucked up there, breathing on him, and just the tip of his tongue brushing the same spot—

No. He couldn’t—couldn’t fucking _do_ this anymore. _No._

As fast and as firmly as he could without just chucking Cas, he pulled away, getting Cas’s face away from the sensitive (and traitorous) flesh of his neck. He pushed him backwards, his arms still around him, but they weren’t all mashed up against each other like they just were, either. Now Dean was shaking, too, but he knew it _definitely_ wasn’t for the same reasons Cas still was—no, he was shaking because he’d—he was remembering what happened the _last_ fucking time Cas had kissed his neck, and he’d felt the _same fucking_ —

No. Just…no. No more. Mood-killer all the way.

Wait—what fucking mood?!

_Son of a bitch!_

He’d just made out with Cas! He’d just come up to his room and _made out with Cas_ , and there’d—there’d been a _mood_! No, there was no denying it, not with the way the warm fuzzies in his chest were at war with the angry and slightly sickened twists of his gut. He’d _made out_ with a _guy_ , it’d had been no accident like he was still staunchly saying that—first night had been, and he’d—

Dean desperately, _desperately_ needed a drink.

He was annoyed that his deliberate, carefully-controlled motions could come off as _gentle_ , could make it look like he was just oh-so-concerned for Cas’s feelings—because he _wasn’t_ , and all he really wanted to do was throw him over the side of the bed and away from himself—but that was the way it was as he slowly extricated himself, sitting up and scooting to the edge of the bed. Cas was sitting up too, looking vaguely disappointed and worried and—oh Jesus Christ, there was no way Dean could take more than a few seconds of that starry-eyed look.

“Good night,” Dean grunted stiffly, heaving himself off of the bed and _forcing_ himself not to run for the door—not only would he look like a complete tool, but the whole house would hear him if he did and that was even less acceptable than making out with Cas.

“Good night, Dean,” Cas said softly back, and Dean gritted his teeth as he yanked the door open, unable to stop himself from glancing back and seeing him sitting there, that _look_ in full-force, and Dean couldn’t remember him looking so…so _pleased_ —

He quickly opened the door and got out of the room. No more. _No fucking more._

Rubbing both hands across his face, he made his way back down the stairs, trying to be quiet about it and failing miserably. Kitchen—back to the booze. He _needed_ it. He needed about three more drinks, then he would go right back to his couch and pretend _that_ never happened, because going upstairs and cuddling and kissing Cas was not—

He nearly had a heart attack when he was halfway across the room and Sam suddenly sat up from the floor, squinting up at him.

His mouth was dry; he couldn’t move. _Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. Shit. Balls. FUCK—_

“Dean?” he rasped groggily.

 _Calm down, just calm the_ fuck _down, he just woke up, for fuck’s sake,_ make something up already _, will you?!_

“Hey, Sammy,” he forced himself to say, keeping his voice at a whisper because he didn’t know if he could keep it from cracking if he went any louder at the moment. “Just takin’ a leak—gonna have a drink and then go back to bed.”

Sam just kept squinting his beady little eyes at him, and thank _Christ_ it was dark, because if it wasn’t, Sam surely would’ve been able to see the way he was starting to turn red, because Dean could feel it, creeping up from his collar and seeping into his face—

“You just woke up and you’re right back to drinking?” Sam said, laying back down and rubbing at his eyes. “That’s bad even for you.”

Dean coughed, trying to make it sound like a derisive laugh. “Eat me,” he grunted, walking past him and into the kitchen before he remembered his bottle and glass were still by his couch on the end table. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he stumped past Sam and back over to the couch, leaning down to unlace his boots and kick them off before he grabbed the bottle and unscrewed it, pouring himself a generous glass and dutifully ignoring the way the whiskey trembled because he was not shaking _that_ badly, thank you very much.

He chanced another glance at Sam—he had already settled back down, his eyes closed, the blankets pulled up near his shoulders. _Okay. Relax. Be cool. It’s fine. Nobody—nobody saw. Nobody knows. It’s…fucking hell, it’s_ not _fine, why do I keep saying it’s all fine?!_

Dean angrily drank the entire shot he’d just poured in one gulp.

It wasn’t fucking fine. It wasn’t fucking _fair_ , either!

…but that was the way it was.

Growling to himself, he poured another shot.


End file.
